


Birthday Boy

by arionriot



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Birthday Sex, Butt Plugs, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Skype
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 03:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10208777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arionriot/pseuds/arionriot
Summary: So, sure, it's Dylan's birthday. It's not a big deal, he just happens to have a few days off between games to go back home for a couple days. He definitely hasn't been repressing any strong emotions towards his best friend, of course not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I started writing this...the evening of Dylan's birthday. It's a few days late, but it's the thought that counts.
> 
> I love writing Dylan as a miserable shit, tbh. This will be a continuous theme that you'll notice.
> 
> Special shoutout to Tango, one of the loves of my life, for helping me write/betaing/being my personal cheerleader for this fic (along with all other fics). Truly, this is dedicated to you.
> 
> (also the mandatory mention of the sin chat bros for being the worst damn enablers)

For Dylan’s birthday, he’s hanging out at home in Toronto.

He feels like the coolest guy, spending his 20th birthday with his parents, before retiring to his room to watch hockey games. Yeah, whatever.

And naturally it’s Connor’s team versus Ryan’s team, because of course it is, because this is just what his life is. Again, whatever.

He’s nervous, mostly because he does wanna talk to Connor tonight, even if somehow the Isles win; like, he doesn’t mind if Connor’s in a funk after losing and needs to take some time to be introspective, but it’s his birthday. Come on. He deserves to talk to his - well, whatever Connor is to him.

What does someone who has regular Skype and Snapchat sex with someone else count as?

So Dylan’s nervous for the evening, and can’t concentrate, and either way he’s gonna get himself a spectacular orgasm tonight, Connor or not. He knows that one surefire way to help him deal with that nervousness is, well, getting out one of those toys he treated himself to a few months back, when he was still getting paid on an NHL salary - but, no, he wasn’t going to get bitter and angry about that tonight, he’s gotta shower and clean himself out, and then he’s got some stretching to do and a game to watch.

Dylan’s worked his way up to two fingers by the time the game starts. He’s decided to watch the Oilers stream, given that he doesn’t really wanna see much of his brother while he’s got a butt plug in, and he wants to see as much of Connor as he can, just in case this is his only chance to see him live (If he needs to, he can always drag up old clips from games on Youtube and use them to jerk off, but he’s done that so often it’s become boring now). He drizzles more lube on his hand, works in a third finger, and sets about slowly fingering himself, hips involuntarily pressing down onto his hand.

He knows what size to expect for the plug, it’s not like he’s never used it before. When he’s scissored himself open enough that he knows he can take the plug without too much discomfort, he withdraws his hand, wipes it off onto the towel he’d set aside for this and drizzles his gold, jewel-set plug with lube. Getting it in is a breeze, far better than the first time he used it, and he’s well settled into it by halfway through the period.

He tentatively tries sitting up with the plug in, promptly gasping when it jolts against his prostate. He breathes in and out through his mouth, desperately trying to keep down any noises - the less chances his parents will come searching for him right now, the better - and wiggles around gently, feeling the sparks shooting through his nervous system, stirring his cock to attention.

It’s gonna be a long game.

//

By midway through period three, Connor is losing and it was looking unlikely that the team would turn it around. Dylan’s desperate, he’s been on edge for at least an hour, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can take this. Connor had better not hang around after the game is up, if he knows what’s good for him.

Dylan decides to pre emptively dodge that bullet, grabbing his phone from beside him on his bed and taking a quick selfie on Snapchat, his pupils entirely dilated, his face flushed and sweaty, his hair plastered to his forehead. He captions it with “u joining?” and sends it before he can think twice about it.

He keeps his phone on hand, just in case he needs to further convince Connor to hurry back.

The game goes from bad to worse, with the Isles scoring an empty net, 4-1 final score. Dylan knows that after the media scrum clears out, he’ll have another hour or so of waiting until Connor either calls him or tells him to fuck off.

(He really hopes it’s the former.)

He gets his answer about five minutes after the game finishes and the Oilers have left the ice, in the form of Connor Snapping him back, a selfie against his stall captioned “what r u doing????”. Dylan considers explaining, but chooses to take a picture of the plug box, typing out “guess” and sending that instead. He knows he’ll get a reaction one way or another.

Sure enough, half an hour later his laptop flashes up with a call from Connor; Dylan grins, and accepts the call.

And - and Connor’s wearing his jersey.

Connor’s sitting there, looking strung up and needy, and he’s wearing Dylan’s Otters jersey, and he can see this because the C is over his heart, but the number on his arm is clearly 19, and his arm is moving, and Connor already looks desperate, and - 

God.

Dylan reaches to clamp his hand tight around the base of his cock to stop from shooting off already.

“Are - shit, is that my jersey, Connie?” Dylan’s voice is breathless and whiny.

“I - fuuck - I was going to call you wearing it a bit later because it’s - ahh - it’s your birthday and I wanna see you get off on your birthday,” Connor repositions his webcam downwards and - oh fuck, he’s already furiously fisting as his cock, it’s flushed head slippery with either precome or lube (Dylan’s nearly scared to ask which), the arms of the jersey are handing slightly too low on Connor’s arms so they keep getting dragged across Connor’s cock too. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dylan feels like Connor nearly looks like his, like not as a possession, but as a - as a lover? Something that isn’t just best friends who fuck a lot? Does he want to actually date Connor?

And those emotional floodgates he’d been desperately trying to keep closed are thrown open, because as soon as he thinks it, he knows that he does. He knows that yeah, sure, being fuckbuddies is great, and spending more time Skyping with Connor because of them being fuckbuddies is even better, but he wants all that sappy shit too; he wants to go to the lakes in Toronto and get ice cream during the off season, and hold hands on the beach, and curl himself around Connor and gently kiss him as he falls asleep, and fuck - that’s so much, that’s too much, Dylan’s hands twitch around his cock and he’s coming, he’s coming hard, he’s in love with Connor and he’s coming all over his hand and the bedspread and his chest and everything, and he wasn’t even able to give Connor a proper show.

Dylan squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop tears that are suddenly welling up. He can’t - he can’t deal with this, not right now, not on his birthday, and especially not in front of Connor, and Connor must think that Dylan’s overwhelmed from the feeling of his orgasm because Dylan can hear Connor’s breath audibly stutter before he lets out a small, sharp gasp. Dylan wipes his hand off on his towel, and reaches up to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes.

The only sounds are of Connor breathing heavily and of their computer fans whirring. They both stay still for a few moments, Connor coming down from his orgasm, Dylan trying to stop himself from legitimately crying in front of Connor over something as stupid and irritating as ‘oh hey, I think I might be in love with you, and I want to feed you strawberries and make out with you next time you fuck me,’ and he thinks he’s being relatively successful. Until he accidentally lets out a sob.

“Um, Dyls? Are you okay?” Connor sounds tentative, worried, and it’s just too fucking much for Dylan to really be handling right now. His eyes well over, and he starts to hyperventilate, and he’s now officially crying in front of the love of his life. Well done, Dylan, you fucked up again.

“Dyls? Dylan! What the fuck is happening?!” Dylan feels guilty for how panicked Connor is sounding, how concerned he always is - fuck, this was inevitable, he was always always going to end up in love with Connor no matter what. Somehow, this thought isn’t comforting right now.

“It’s fine, I’m just - I’m just dealing with some things right now,” Dylan’s voice is scratchy, and not in a sexy way; he hazards looking at Connor’s face on the screen, and the look of heartbreaking concern is so much for him to deal with right now. He does resist the urge to bury his face again, tipping his head back instead to stop the flow of tears, and to avoid having to look at Connor again.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” And the worst part is, Connor doesn’t even sound hurt or disappointed that Dylan hasn’t told him about this. He only sounds worried for Dylan, for his best friend, and Dylan just - snaps.

“No, I can’t! I can’t talk to you about this because you wouldn’t understand! You don’t know what it’s like to be in love - I - ” Dylan chokes up. He’s amazed with himself, and how he’s making this go from bad to worse; could he, maybe, not totally fuck up his birthday?

“...Do you really think that? Do you really think I don’t know what it’s like to be in love? Dylan, your eyes must be glued shut or something because I am definitely in love.” Connor’s putting on his captain voice, and it would be amusing, but Dylan’s known Connor for so long that he can hear the wavering note beneath his captain talking.

Dylan looks up, looks into Connor’s face on his screen, sees the look of sheer terror on Connor’s face. Connor’s throwing himself out there, putting himself in the direct line of fire, and he knows that Dylan knows this, but - but surely Connor can’t be talking about him? What could he possibly offer Connor, the Connor McDavid, youngest captain in the history of the NHL, points leader and all around incredible person - surely Connor can’t be talking about him?

“Who?” Dylan means to sound confident, perhaps even joking; his voice comes out small and broken instead. Connor bites his lip, watches as Dyl’s eyes flick down to watch him chew, and back up again, slightly more flushed.

“You. Of course. It’s always you. Who else is there but you?”

Dylan’s world implodes.

This - is this really his life?

For fuck’s sake, Connor.

“Are you fucking with me right now? Because i-if you’re fucking me around right now, I r-really don’t - ”

“I love you, Dylan. I’ve loved you for so long. I thought that - that if I just, started Skyping with you that it would be enough? But I’ve loved you since we were in high school together, man.” Dylan’s eyes go into tunnel vision, and at the end of the tunnel he can only see Connor’s face across the monitor, staring at him with the most anxious expression Dylan’s ever seen on his face. That - that is not the look of a man who’s fucking him around. That’s the look of a man dead-set to stay on board even if it kills him.

“Fuck, you don’t even - I love you too, alright? I love you so so fucking much and I just wanna like, go on dates and shit, and wake up in the morning next to you and I want the first thing I see in the morning to be your smile and I want to be able to kiss you and - shit.” Dylan drew in a deep breath and released it. “I want to kiss you right now, so much, but you’re so fucking far away, you loser.”

Connor giggles, delightful and delighted, kissing his clean index and middle fingers and pressing them to the camera; Dylan mirrors the action with his own fingers.

“The second we’re both back in the GTA after the season wraps up, I’m taking you to the city and we’re going to go on a date, properly. I don’t care where we’ll need to go so we’re left alone but I promise you, I’m taking you out on a fucking date to make up for the fact that I sorta made you cry on your birthday.” Dylan laughs, wet and borderline hysterical; he wipes his eyes with his hands.

“That would be cool. I’d like to go on a proper date with you. I wanna see you bring out those famous romancin’ moves, McDavid,” Connor smiles, confident and mischievous, making Dylan shiver.

“Oh, trust me, the moves’ll be out for sure. You won’t know what hit you, Stromer.”

They maintain eye contact as well as they can for a webcam for a few moments, letting the whole day sink in. Dylan’s realised how deeply his love for Connor goes, and he’s told Connor that he loves him, and Connor’s told Dylan that he loves him, and - wow. Has he managed to get a boyfriend for his birthday?

For the first time in a long time, Dylan feels in control of his world, and he loves it.

He can’t wait to see what happens next time he and Connor are in the same city.

**Author's Note:**

> [ This might have been ](http://www.peachesandcream.co.nz/rianne-s-booty-plug-luxury-set-gold-2pk-198935?filter_name=&filter_tag=butt%20plug) the plug I had in mind while writing.
> 
> This is also implicitly understood to be a work of fiction.
> 
> (...there might be a sequel on the way at some point in the future. no promises.)


End file.
